Forklovia: A Traitor Marines tale
by N. Kage
Summary: These are the tales of Lord Forklovia, daemonprince Warning: may contain spirtual and religous references related to 40K I claim no ownership to any 40k stuff here
1. Beginnings

Chapter 1

Beginnings

They call me a monster, a foul beast that should be purged with flame and death, a Traitor that must be destroyed, a daemon that must be banished. Do you know why they call me a monster, a beast, a Traitor, and a daemon? Of course you don't. I was once one of their most celebrated heroes, a shining example of purity and faith, of strength and power. I was a Space Marine, genetically and physically altered to make me stronger, faster, able to heal wounds in an instant, see in the night as if it was day. The Chaplains closed my mind to the true way of the universe, with their prayers and their teachings and their lies. They told me that without the Emperor, there is nothing, just chaos and disorder and death. They told me that the Primarch, Robute Guilliman, changed the universe for the better, with his Codex Astartes and his teachings. At the time, I believed them, for I knew no better. I prayed at their sermons for the Emperor to guide my hand and guard my soul. Until, I fought on Jerpeth, against the worshippers of Chaos. There, the words of a Dark Apostle of the Word Bearers made me think about who had the real power in the universe, it was not the corpse-Emperor, oh no.

"Sergeant Forklovia, take the manufactorium from the Traitor filth!" Captain Greavous shouted over the din of the battle, his deep, rich voice carrying over the sounds of bolt fire, plasma rounds and screams. Forklovia couldn't tell who or what was screaming, but it was unnerving, the voices sounding like a knife on glass. Forklovia acknowledged the command with a curt reply.

The planet of Jerpeth had turned from the Emperors light with an orgy of bloodletting and violence, brought on by the foul oratories of the Word Bearers legion, their Dark Apostle striding through the corpse-fields and murder-factories to slay every Ministorum priest and destroy every Ecclesiarchy temple. The sky itself burned red with horror and daemons were said to cavort with the people. The world was on its way to being irrevocably tainted. Until the Black Hands Second Company came, with a fiery anger. The Black Hands Strike Cruiser was under way to a different warzone, when they received a distress call from the Imperial Guard garrison, a board band transmission sent from the one surviving astropath, pleading for help from anyone that heard the message. The Black Hands drop-pods and Thunderhawks had plunged straight into the heart of the Traitors, aiming to kill the Dark Apostle and end the rebellion.

Forklovia surged out of cover behind a rune-dabbled wall and charged forward, chainsword screaming. Behind him, his Tactical squad followed, firing bolters from the hip as they ran. Brother Apollo and Terses did not fire, one carrying a flamer, which was of no use yet, the other, hefting the bulk of a heavy bolter, thick chains of ammo packed into his specialized power-pack.

The manufactorium was fifty meters ahead, a strong point in the Traitor line. Dozens of heretics and rebels stood behind barricades, while Traitor Marines gave them courage with whips and curses. Forklovia could hear the Dark Apostle over the noise, the Traitors words making him feel unclean, but some of things the Apostle said struck home on a deeper level, the words about a corpse-Emperor staying alive with the unwilling deaths of a thousand a day, the words about a bloated government ruling with fear and death, the words about the Chaos powers granting gifts to those who turn from the corpse-god, the words about how the Chaplains and the Ecclesiarchary Priests lied about everything, about the corpse-Emperor being a god, about how the Emperor would one day step off the Golden Throne, everything they said were lies. The words made him angry, angry at the Emperor, angry at the Chaplains who lied to him, angry at the universe for betraying him. Forklovia raised his bolt-pistol and fired a burst at rebels manning the barricades, killing two in a burst of blood and gore. Snarling in wordless fury, Forklovia charged headlong towards the manufactorium, sprinting across a wide street, his squad struggling to keep up.

Forklovia smashed his armored shoulder into the barricade and rolled, slashing apart two rebels with his sword as he stood. Looking up, he stared into the face of the Dark Apostle. The Traitor's face was old and scarred, his eyes unnaturally red. The Marines once proud and noble armor was warped, with leering daemon faces on the greaves, chest and shoulder-guards. In his hand, a spitting snake-headed weapon rested, or rather, was part of the Traitors hand.

"Do you hear the voices of Chaos?" The Apostle spoke, his voice deep and dark, his eyes ablaze when he said the words.

Forklovia ripped off his snarl-nosed helmet and fell to his knees, arms spread wide and spoke, "Yes, oh yes! I give myself to the powers of Chaos, mind, body and soul!"

"Good.' The Dark Apostle spoke, smiling ferally, exposing steel fangs, 'To prove yourself to Chaos pantheon, and to me, you must kill your Brothers and offer their souls to Chaos!" The Apostles voice rose to a fevered pitch, his eyes wide with fervor.

At the time, I wanted to be just like the Dark Apostle, I wanted to have his fervor, his strength and his devotion. Only later, I realized I had renounced one oppressive religion and joined another. The Word Bearers were so devoted to the worship of the entire Chaos Pantheon; they were blinded to the other ways of the universe. Even when I killed my Brothers, daubed my armor with their blood and carved the eight-pointed star on everything I owned, I wanted more. I did not want to be a slave to the Dark Apostles teachings; I wanted to command my own Marines. I bided my time, balling my anger in my soul, until I could break from Word Bearers. Until I was strong enough to do this, I would follow the Dark Apostles banner.

Rising from his kneeling position, Forklovia spun and jumped back into the fray, determined to prove his devotion to his new gods. His former squad had listened to the entire conversation, and those who did not wear helmets, now wore fury on their faces. Forklovia raised his pistol and blew the head of Brother Apollo, the Marines thick blood spraying. Snarling wordlessly, Forklovia pressed forward, pressing the muzzle of his pistol against the chest of Brother Klen and squeezed the trigger, the mass-reactive bolts cracking and punching through the Marines breastplate, to detonate inside his fused ribs in a shower of blood. Brother Terses braced his legs and opened fire with his heavy bolter, the weapon spitting out shells like a wave of smoking brass, the heavy rounds punching through Forklovia's thigh and stomach, detonating wetly in his belly and groin. His body pumped pain suppressors into system but Forklovia still slumped down on one knee, dropping his pistol to force his guts back inside his stomach.

"You are weak and not worthy to serve the Chaos powers!" shouted the Dark Apostle, his voice mocking and derisive.

Pain flooding into his mind, Forklovia stood, he could feel blood running down his leg from his stomach, and he could no longer feel his other leg. He cared not, his mind filled with cold fury and his limbs filled with unholy and unnatural strength. Brother Terses was firing at the Dark Apostle, but rebels and Traitor Marines alike were diving in front of the shells to save the Apostle. Forklovia revved his chainsword up to full and slashed it across the barrel of the heavy bolter, splitting the weapon in two at the breech. The next rounds blew up in the breech and blasted Terses backwards, the other ammo cooking off in his pack with an explosion that shredded his body.

Forklovia, still trying to keep his guts in his stomach cavity, slashed his sword across the stomach of another one of his former Battle-Brothers, his name forgotten in Forklovia's anger. The chainsword, aided by Forklovia's unnatural strength, slashed straight through the Marines power armor and almost cut the Marine in half, blood spraying from the wound. Another one of his former Brothers was firing his bolter at Forklovia, the rounds denting his armor and forcing the Traitor backwards under the impacts. Grabbed a rebel and used it as a shield, the rebel shrieking before dying from the bolt rounds. Forklovia surged forward and slashed his chainsword through the Marines leg. The Marine fell and Forklovia stabbed the sword through his former Brothers neck and cut the Marines head off. There were only three Brothers in his Tactical squad left.

The Dark Apostle ran forward, his plasma pistol spitting death. The glowing balls of plasma immolating two of the Black Hands into ash in an instant, the third had his legs burned off.

Forklovia staggered over to the Apostle, weak from blood loss, and grabbed the Traitor by his shoulders and pulled him close, "Am I strong enough now?" Forklovia hissed, before falling backwards, unconscious.

I have come a long way since this point. I have been in the Eye of Terror and made pacts with daemons, I have sacrificed a million souls to the dark gods, I have slain uncountable numbers of men, and have been given numerous gifts for these great things, I fly on black wings, I carry a daemon sword in my hand, I have the strength and toughness of a daemon! Most of all, I carry the Dark Apostles plasma pistol in my hand. That was a day I will remember. I was powerful enough to command an army of followers, both Traitor Marines and traitor guard, but the Dark Apostle still thought I was his boot-lick. I never did learn his name, maybe he didn't have one, who knows.

"Forklovia, come here." The Apostle said, his voice harsh and grating, his teeth clenched.

"You are not my master!" Forklovia snapped, his power-sword flickering on in response to his anger, and the leering faces in his armor gnashed their teeth.

The snake-heads of his Crozius snapping in anger, the Apostle walked over to Forklovia, fury written on his face. Every Marine within earshot of the two was watching, this confrontation had been brewing for years. Almost instantly, the camp was divided in two, those who supported Forklovia and those who supported the Dark Apostle. Forklovia's followers numbered many, many more. All of the Raptors, most of the Traitor Marines and all of the tank crews stood behind him, as well as a good number of the traitor guard and mutants.

"Do you think you are my better, whelp?' The Apostle spoke, his voice a low whisper, this confrontation would be just between the two of them, 'I learned in the Council of Lorgar! I have fought across this galaxy for two thousand years! And you think you are my better! I will put you down like the dog you are!" The Apostle snarled, lashing out with his snake-headed weapon.

Forklovia blocked the blow with his sword, the two red power-fields sparking as they struck. Forklovia fired his pistol under the Apostles guard, but the bolts detonated harmlessly before they struck, the Apostles Crozius generating a conversion-field. The Apostle smashed Forklovia with his plasma pistol, the Apostles unholy strength denting Forklovia's chest-plate with the blow, warning runes flashing across his helmet-display. His helmet and armor had long since been part of his body and his felt pain from the blow, bloody seeping from the wound. Forklovia rolled back from the blow and kicked the Apostle in the face with his heels, the armored boots smashing the Apostles jaw into shreds.

The Apostle reeled and raised his pistol, the plasma weapon emitting a humming as it charged. With a shriek, the ball of plasma shot towards Forklovia. The Traitor Marine was still picking himself up when the plasma round struck his side. With a flash and a crack, the liquid plasma dissipated instantly four inches from his body, stopped by something Forklovia did not understand.

Forklovia picked himself and sprayed his pistol on auto, empting the magazine at the Apostle with roar. Several of the bolts passed through the Apostles conversion-field and punched into his armor, blowing holes and sending dark blood spraying. The Apostle was far from dead, however.

Forklovia charged forward, swinging his sword in a sideways arc while the Apostle was still shrugging off the gunshots. The power-sword was stopped by the Apostles conversion-field, but Forklovia gritted his teeth and pumped stimulants into his system with a thought. The conversion-field overloaded with a pop and the sword almost cut the Apostle in half with the sizzle of blood and the shriek of metal on bone. As the Apostle died, he smashed Forklovia in the face with his snake-headed Crozius, the snake-heads unnaturally hard and their fangs unnaturally long. Forklovia could feel the fangs punch into the skin on his face. Snarling, Forklovia reached up and tore the snake-heads from the hilt in a welter of blood.

"May the gods damn you." The Apostle said as he collapsed in a pool blood and gore.

Reaching down, Forklovia wrenched the plasma pistol from the Apostles hand and holstered the ancient weapon. He could feel a tingling sensation across his entire body. Shaking his head, Forklovia slashed his sword across the Apostles neck and severed the bastards head with one stroke. Bending down again, the Traitor Marine picked up the Apostles head by the top of the skull and raised it to the heavens and shouted, "Am your better now?" before he threw the head into the braying masses of Traitor Marines and guardsmen.

A black nimbus of light surrounded Forklovia and he felt himself being raised up by an unknown power. He lost consciousness as the power flowed through him and when he found himself back on the ground, he had changed.

He had been blessed with unholy strength and vitality, a daemons aura, massive black bat wings and a daemon essence bound within his now black sword. His eyes were black as sin and mighty horns sprouted from his helmet. He had become a daemon-prince and the universe would tremble at his passing.


	2. Returning the Gifts

Chapter One: Returning the Gifts

Which brings me to the next step in my journey to cast the False Emperor from his black throne and reclaim this universe in the name of the Four Powers of Chaos. In this universe, no gift is freely given and my gifts from the Chaos powers were no different. I had to repay the powers of the Warp in some way, or I would end up as a spawn, or some gibbering maniac, or more likely, some combination of the two. I stumbled upon an Imperial world and immediately knew how to return the gifts, with souls, countless souls.

"Blood for the Blood God!" screamed the cultists, their voices echoing across the blood-stained and shell-cratered no-mans land, to reach the ears of the Imperial Guardsmen some five-hundred meters away in their rough dug-outs and crude earth-works. Those Guardsmen who were unlucky enough to hear the call cringed from the sheer anger and hate those words were spoken with, enough anger to drown a world in its fury, enough hate to kill a thousand worlds.

"Skulls for the Skull Throne!" again the cultists shouted in the sky, those fortunate few with blades were cutting themselves, drawing thin, red lines of devotion across their bare arms and chests, as if to wet Lord Khrones lips in anticipation of the slaughter to come.

Forklovia, known as the Forsaken, was less than joyous to see his cultists cutting themselves before their attack began. The cultists were just attacking so he could find out if the Imperials had effective artillery, after all, but the cultists did not know that, oh no. Even if they did, they would still throw themselves into the teeth of the Imperial defenses, just to shed blood in their foul god's name. Forklovia spit at the thought, just to worship one of the four Chaos powers was stupid, a foolish act by those who could not comprehend the true powers in the warp. Forklovia raised his daemon-sword, Mor'etha, and swung the heavy, black blade down in a savage arc, the signal for the cultists to begin their 'attack on the Imperial trench-works.

With a wordless scream of anger, the mobs of Chaos cultists, some had once been former Imperial citizens and Guardsmen, surged forward, their eyes bulging in their eagerness to shed blood in their perverse god's name and perhaps gain enough favor to rise above the masses around them. Of course, if they failed, by say, dying, an eternity of torment in some daemon-hell would await.

The no-mans land was a hell in itself, of rusting razor-wire, half buries mines, blood-filled craters, and, of course, bodies. Hundreds of cultists had already tried storming this way, for Forklovia wanted to find out where the main Imperial bunkers were. Those who were still alive, running hell-bent towards the trenches ignored the dead, they had been found wanting in Khornes eyes.

The cultists were about two-hundred meters away, their hearts singing at a chance to kill and be killed for Khrone, their poorly maintained las-weapons and auto-pistols were carried like clubs, their blood-encrusted knives, swords and axes were raised high, ready to split heads, carve open stomachs, and slash throats. None would ever get that chance.

At a heavily fortified observation post some distance away, Lieutenant Janes calmly radioed in the pre-determined coordinates, causing Earthshaker artillery pieces to rain fiery death upon the cultists. A one-hundred square meter section of the no-mans land was a hell-storm of dust and metal, causing bodies to be thrown into the air like rag-dolls, to land brokenly. For exactly two minutes, the barrage continued unabated, to stop abruptly at another pre-arranged signal. Raising a battered pair of magnoculars to his tired eyes, the artillery officer smugly surveyed the scene.

Not one of the cultists was standing, or in one piece, for that matter. A thin rain of blood appeared to be falling, but that would stop soon enough. A new mass of craters had formed on the landscape, just a new obstacle to stop the Chaos bastards, he though. The twisted ships of the Chaos fleet had dropped into orbit around the world of Jordan IV about a month ago and the fighting had never stopped. He shook his head, he had seen hundreds of his friends and comrades killed as the battered Imperial regiments fell back around the planetary capital of Jinn. Now that they had their backs to the city, the damn idiot of a Governor had decreed that not one drop of blood would fall upon the ancient and heavily fortified walls, which is why they were stuck wallowing in the mud. Janes gritted his teeth in anger, the Governor just wanted to protect the 'precious and holy' relics in the various Cathedrals scattered about the city from what the moronic bastard called 'that petty little war.' The war had come to his damn doorstep and the inbred fool wanted to protect his city. The Chaos bastards had been shelling the city for a week straight and the governor still refused to let the Guard into the city. Colonel Kor was threatening to shoot the idiot if they were not inside the walls by next week.

Back across the reshaped no-mans land, Lord Forklovia began to think of a plan to eliminate the Imperial artillery and crack their line like a skull. It involved his retinues of Raptors and Kores Hevankells berserkers.


End file.
